


our common goal

by rustywrites



Category: Thor (2011), Thor (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Implied Relationships, M/M, POV Second Person, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-05
Updated: 2011-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-26 23:33:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rustywrites/pseuds/rustywrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You let your walls crumble so easily around me, brother. If only you knew.</p><p>---</p><p>Loki-centric introspection. Loosely grounded in the movie-verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	our common goal

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is a thing that happened
> 
> Written To/Inspired By: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=obV-OL3TwXo

I let you push me into the wall. Your hands are everywhere and the stubble on your chin burns and scratches against my skin, down my neck, over my jaw. I smile at nothing, close my eyes, and let you go. Let you tattoo faint bruises down my throat, let your fingers scrape at my clothing. Clumsy and brutish, just like always. Impulsive and out of control. Hungry and desperate like some kind of animal.

You let your walls crumble so easily around me, brother. If only you knew.

I play the wilting flower and you fall for it each and every time. You’ve always been looking for someone to save, even when those who you would rescue have always been better off without you (and always will be).

Your breath is hot and wet against my skin and my heart is beating almost as fast as yours now. I feel your hands tug pointedly at the leather and metal that hold my armor into place. You’re hard against my thigh and I can feel your pulse throb in your finger tips; so loud I can almost hear it. I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t enjoy this.

We all have our needs.

You want to solve Asgard’s problems with the stroke of the sword, to cleanse it’s enemies in the fires of war and cost be damned. Do you even realize this yourself, I wonder? Or are you too caught up in your desperate fumble to prove yourself that you would see your home burned and torn asunder if only to bolster your pride? You are so eager to affirm your place in this world that you’d destroy it.

There are times, brother, when I feel sorry for you. I will be the first to argue that you are well intentioned and it truly is tragic that I can never allow you to succeed. But you are a warrior, not a king. Not yet.

I push you away because I know you love the struggle and our eyes meet for just a moment and I’m stricken with a sudden spike of nervousness. I hate when you look at me like that, like you know. Like you can read me. No one can read me. Still and again, there are times when I wonder where the line between us has been drawn. I will do whatever it takes to save Asgard from you, make no mistake, and yet this resolve doesn’t come without some amount of hesitation. I hate it. I hate you. (I love you more dearly than you will ever know.)

I remember the first time you came to me, after lifting Mjolnir. I remember the way your eyes glowed and your hands shook as your words came in waterfalls. Endless assurances for the future, boundless pride, infinite hope. Arrogance. I smiled then and sat beside you, nodding in the right places, slipping congratulations into your ear while inside I was little more than a hurricane; all rage and fury. Jealousy, maybe. It was on that day when I knew what I had to do.

I let you believe that I need you. It’s not difficult. I was always one of your weaknesses no matter how hard you try and hide it. (Maybe you were always one of mine, too.)

You bite down on the sensitive junction between my neck and shoulder and I can’t help but hiss. I hate myself for it, for letting you under my skin even in the most base and physical of ways. You growl my name and it takes everything I have to keep me from repeating yours in kind. Silver tongue made useless by the stroke of yours against my collar bone, by the twisting of your hands in my hair, by the sound of your breathing. I quake beneath you as you haul me away from the wall, throw me gracelessly down against the lavish bed of your chambers. I hate that there is a part of me that is not entirely convinced that this is all part of the plan.

But what is a trickster if he can’t occasionally fool himself?


End file.
